


A Fresh Start

by ZanderMattS



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19266364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZanderMattS/pseuds/ZanderMattS
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley belonged in London. It was all fast cars, interesting people and small, cozy book stores. But fate (and A-levels) had other ideas. Beginning university is hard, but it's even harder so far from home.(Basically just a dumb uni AU where Azi and Crowley end up in a Northern uni and just try to exist. I'll think of a plot eventually.)





	A Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is my first fanfic so please go gentle on me okay i'm just a useless gay who really loves my celestial (and occult) boys

**Chapter 1 - Love Thy Neighbor**

 

University was supposed to be a new opportunity. A fresh start. A way to escape the failure that had haunted him for years. This was not what Anthony J Crowley was expecting.

 

It had been a grim and drizzly night.

Not so much unbearable as plainly depressing - like all forces on God's Earth were bent on making this cesspit as unwelcoming as possible. Certainly it was about as far from home as possible.

On night one he'd been awoken at 3am by a singing drunkard outside.

Night two was a blur of tar-like off-brand Jaeger and hot rooms packed with limp, heterosexual dancing. 

The rain began on night three, driving every Southerner back to their halls for a cozy night of uninspired card games with irritating strangers.

Even five days after arriving, those used to more clement weather had only just begun to venture from their shelter, tempted by the first society socials of the year.

All in all, Crowley had not been impressed.

 

*

 

Coffee shops were not Anthony J Crowley’s usual haunt, but they were by far the best place to recover from a night out. Tidy but unpacked, his own room made his head swim - the layers of furniture, plants, posters, and memorabilia from his home life was too much excitement for a brain running on barely half capacity. But coffee shops were perfect. Warm, shadowy and quiet, with as much soft seating as a man could ask for, and caffeinated liquids on demand. Even without a hangover of the usual proportions, the young man felt more at home here than almost anywhere else on campus. 

Anthony dragged his unsweetened black americano into the most gloomy corner, and settled into a plush armchair to wait. The expected attendee, who’s name was entirely unpronounceable, had obtained Crowley’s coat on the walk home from the bar crawl, and thankfully seemed enthusiastic about returning it. 

Not that there had been much else about the LGBT society bar crawl to illicit enthusiasm of any kind. Anthony sadly had arrived just early enough to be seated at the table instead of lurking behind, surrounded by other students clutching tepid beers as they introduced themselves. It felt like an AA meeting for gays. Hi, I’m Anthony Crowley, pansexual, pronouns he / him, and I’ve been sober for 10 hours. There was something about reducing a person to a series of definitions like that which felt dehumanising. In that moment he decided that he would stay only as long as it took to learn the route to the gay bars.

The boy coming to return his coat had been sat just beyond the main circle, in a peak lurking environment that Crowley couldn’t help but envy. When asked to introduce himself, it had been little more an a mumble (“Er, I’m Aziraphale White… Er, gay. And er… Sorry, never mind.”), and when he fell quiet he immediately returned to staring into a coke-based drink as if it could provide escape from the discomfort of the situation. If Crowley had bothered to look, he would have seen the boy nudge the sleeves of his jumper over his hands in an anxious disappearing trick that turned the blonde into barely more than a beige chunky knit turtleneck.

On his return the next day, the boy looked almost no different. Lit from behind by a window that opened into the street, Aziraphale was haloed in the last warm sunlight of the year. His head was bowed to peer into the depths of his hot chocolate, allowing the glow to pick out the dusty blonde of his curls. The hideous turtleneck had been replaced by a cardigan of the same colour, but the overall effect hadn't changed. Crowley was faced with an awkward beige lump. 

“Hi. How’s your hangover?”

For a second it looked like the blonde wasn't even going to sit down, he just hovered by a chair and let an awkward expression sweep over his soft features. Then he plucked up something that could have been confidence, but could have been irritation, and sat. This guy was a lot harder to understand sober than drunk, and as soon as he had his coat back, Crowley doubted he’d give the boy the honour of further association. 

“I’m fine. I didn’t drink too much. It wasn’t really my kind of party.” Confidence? Or irritation? It was hard to tell. “I’m sorry for dragging you away from it. I would have been fine on my own.”

“No, really, I couldn’t wait to leave. Lucky escape.” The party hadn’t been so much drab as it had been overdone, like freshers week all over again. Since the rain began Crowley had resigned himself to house parties with his one functional flatmate - a girl with the unfortunate name of Anathema Device. When the weather gave them respite, the rest of the freshers had been insufferable. The girls saw a well-dressed guy in shades in a club and either tried too hard to be impressive (which was a mighty feat at 3am after 15 jagerbombs) or assumed he was unsociable. Or a bouncer, which was worse. As for the boys… Most of the clubs that week had been a testosterone-filled shark tank of heterosexuals. People like Anthony were not welcome there. Which was fine, since as long as he provided the booze, Anathema had been more than happy to provide slightly less legal substances for their own parties. “By the time I went outside, some guy had tried to kiss me. He was boasting about how he was a third year medicine student, but I’m sure he said he was first year geology at the start of the night. Like I said, I was glad to leave.”

When he nodded the curls of the boy’s fringe bounced, and he raised a hand to push them aside, regretting it immediately. Even the gloom that bathed the table made him feel no less exposed. Cornflower blue eyes set into a round face with a slight double chin. The perfect kind of face to match the kind of guy who wore beige turtlenecks to bar crawls. The kind of face that was sickeningly pure. Politely the blonde let his gaze drift back to the untouched hot chocolate. Even if his companion wouldn’t stop watching him, Aziraphale would limit his exposure to his judgements. “Anyway, I have your coat. I don’t know if you noticed but you left your driver’s licence and a five pound note in the right pocket. It’s all still there.”

_ Crowley wasn’t really one to lend his jackets to people. Sure, it was a romantic gesture or, at the very least, a nice thing to do. But his circulation was bad, and he got cold easily, and so his jackets were to remain firmly on his own body unless stated otherwise. But the boy had just looked so damn pathetic. A shivering, miserable mess, leaning on a wall in a way that he could have gotten away with if he was a smoker, but even in Anthony’s distanced, inebriated state it was clear that the kid had never touched a cigarette in his life. It had been the same boy from when he first arrived at the bar crawl. “You’re Araphiel, right?” _ _   
_ _ “Aziraphale.” _

_ “That’s what I said. Asrafel.” _

_ “Just call me Azi.” He spoke with with his jaw gritted in a way that suggested the last person to call him ‘Azi’ had not had a pleasant experience of it. The look of irritated disgust only intensified when Crowley flipped a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans.  _

_ “Anyway, anyway, anyway, my point is, this bar crawl is shit and you look bored.” Alcohol gently smudged each word into the next, blending what Aziraphale assumed could have been a clean London accent into a muddy drunken mess. _

_ In all honesty, the more pressing matter was quite how cold it was getting, especially without the faux warmth of drunkenness. Realistically, Aziraphale knew that a drunken person was more likely to be targeted by anyone who wanted to do harm, but the cold did have a habit of bringing with it a sense of vulnerability. Alone, in the dark, looking all harmless and lost, shivering violently. Any predator would be drawn to something that easy. “I don’t quite see how any of that is important. If you’re so bored, go home.” No one safe wore sunglasses at night. No one  _ **_sane_ ** _ wore sunglasses at night, inebriated or otherwise. Even if he wasn’t some kind of troublemaker, he had to be far from normal.  _

_ “What I’m trying to say is d’you want to walk with me?” He spoke in a cloud of cigarette smoke with the kind of casual air of someone who knew the answer would be ‘yes’. “And not like that. I just don’t wanna walk on my own.” _

It had turned out the blonde lived in the same place as Crowley - Crown halls, block F - just a few doors down. Hardly the generous offer if they were both going the same way, but surely the kindness counted for something.

“Thanks, Aziraphale.” He’d looked the name up on the facebook group that morning and hoped not to butcher it. It was a weird name, probably biblical, and not something any normal family would name their child. ‘Azi’ on the other had felt much too colloquial, especially for someone Crowley hoped never to have to speak to again. 

_ “Here, borrow my coat.” Azi’s voice was cut by the chattering of his teeth, making his already rushed speech even harder to decipher, and by now the shivering was beginning to get on Crowley’s nerves. He shrugged off the coat and tossed it in his companion’s direction. “My flatmate claimed my leather jacket last night, so this’ll have to do.” _

_ The overcoat fit poorly on Aziraphale’s frame, but it was considerably warmer than just the turtleneck. About five inches shorter than Crowley, the coat was both much too long and about two sizes too small. However it did smell strangely nice. A cologne heavy on sandalwood and musk, absolutely dripping in money. “So, uh, where are you from?” _

_ “London. Mostly. With my mum and my brother.” The response was clipped and unfinished, a far cry from the previous drunken drawl. “You?” _

_ “My family live near Oxford.” That explained the accent. Still noticeably rich, still noticeably southern, but it was the kind of accent that spoke more of countryside than city. Probably a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. It was also an insight into the painfully incorrect clubbing attire at the very least. “I don’t have any siblings though. Coming here has been all a bit much compared to home. Flatmates, and freshers week, and everything.” As time went on, the chilly shiver melted from his voice, though Aziraphale still clutched the coat tightly around his frame. “I have the flatmates from hell. Absolute monsters. I’ve barely slept at all. Hopefully they’ll still be out when I get back…” He mumbled. Quiet was wedging itself between them, no doubt bringing awkwardness in its wake.  _

_ “Mine are a pain too.” The response filled in the silence but little more. Just something to pass the time as they walked. “Residential advisors, both of them. Think they’re so rightous.” Of course, Crowley carefully emitted that during his entire introduction to his residential advisor flatmates, Anathema had been quietly smoking a blunt on the kitchen sofa. One that he had planned to join her in. “By the time I get back they’ll probably be in bed. And woe betide anyone who awakens them.” _

The voices of righteousness had in fact stayed up, especially for him, to  Crowley that he left a bowl out before he left and that hey had so kindly put it in the bin for him before it stank up the kitchen.

Anthony could have sworn neither of them blinked for the entire conversation.

He was snapped out of the train of thought by Aziraphale tilting sideways under the table. For a while he fumbled with the buckles on the brown leather satchel, but finally managed to produce from it a neatly folded black overcoat. “Here! Complete with pocket contents. My apologies, I would have laundered it but I didn’t really have time…” As ridiculous as the offer to launder it sounded, Crowley tried to inhale the scent of the coat as casually as he could. It didn’t quite smell the same. Not quite floral, but definitely something more fresh than his own cologne. Sober, he’d known the blonde for all of five minutes but nothing about that choice of scents surprised him. Aziraphale had about all the masculinity of a knitted butterfly. Under the right conditions it may almost have been cute. These were not the right conditions.

“It’s fine. Anathema stole my leather jacket, so you still have a better track record than her.” Crowley’s smile was not entirely forced, but at this time of day he required considerably more caffeine before it could grow into his usual charming grin. “By the way, since you’re one of my first contacts here, and since neither of us enjoyed last night, what say you about maybe coming to my next house party?”

These were not the right conditions under which Aziraphale could be cute. Perhaps a house party would be. 


End file.
